


Sileo Nobis

by PussyButter



Category: Dead Space
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:52:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181552
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PussyButter/pseuds/PussyButter
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Of spoons, both big and little.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sileo Nobis

**Author's Note:**

> It's been a while, huh?

Isaac is the little spoon.

 

Carver thinks it might be presumptuous, that first night, to curl around Isaac’s back, breathe into the nape of his neck, his hand on Isaac’s stomach firmly keeping them together. Isaac fits into the groove of his hips, his back melting back to meet Carver’s chest.

 

Isaac loved Nicole, and then loved Ellie, and most likely did the same things with the two of them that he and Carver do now. The things that leave them sweaty and gasping with half-choked words and the knowledge that the sheets should probably be washed immediately.

 

The things that still have Carver curled around Isaac’s back, hips thrusting in a frantic rhythm, Isaac squirming and arching into the bed, head turned, mouth open and drooling and moaning, moaning for Carver.

 

Isaac is the little spoon.

 

Carver’s had his own tangos with what the Marker wanted to show him – awful, cruel visions of his wife, his son, mangled remains that are barely human-passing – and knows that compared to Isaac, he had it easy. Shit, he had help, a _partner_ , someone he knew wouldn’t screw him over or play him for the fool.

 

He knows about Kendra. He hates her. _Passionately_.

 

Dana isn’t even worth thinking about. Norton even less so.

 

Isaac is the little spoon.

 

He’s tired. Three times he’s had to step up to the plate and it shows. In the lines around his eyes, the silvering at his temples, in the way he bows his head in the shower, the sadness behind his eyes. He could be big spoon if he wanted; Carver doesn’t care (and who even uses the word emasculated anymore). He’d trade. But still. Isaac is a tired soul. Carver, through the wonders of military-trained compartmentalization, shoves back his issues.

 

Isaac would be insulted, Carver’s sure. He’s not a delicate flower, but Carver’s alpha hind-brain rumbles that this man is hurting and it’s his job to make the hurt…less. Isaac is his. His. His to keep warm, and safe, and happy.

 

He’s essentially equated himself to a teddy bear. There’s a spark of childish pride in Carver at the thought. He wouldn’t mind it.

 

“G’night.”

 

Isaac is the little spoon. He curls into Carver’s arms, and Carver holds on.


End file.
